


Gray in Your Heart

by Sonora



Series: Heads in Boxes [3]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drug Use, For reasons, M/M, Mild Kink, Reddington enjoys messing with Ressler, and of course this involves lots of sex, you can't tell me he doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Resslington drabbles, set in the same 'verse as Camio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guests

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to work up some inspiration for a sequel to my "gay for the mission" fic, so we'll see. In the meantime, have some short little snippets.

“Has it healed yet?”  

Ressler freezes in the doorway, keys still in hand.  Of all the damn things to walk into after this week, this week, with another of those cases that leaves him needing to retreat into the shower, physically scrub the depravity off his body…

  “Red?”

  “How many times, darling boy, do I need to tell you to call me Raymond?”  

Bracing himself, Ressler retrieves the brown bags of groceries from his mat, and kicks the door shut behind him.  He was short on beer, and he’s got the weekend off, and he doesn’t want to budge from his apartment until Monday morning, when he get his ass beat at Conditioning.    “How many times do I have to tell you to knock, like a normal person?” he grunts, barely casting a glance in the direction of the couch, where Red’s got his damn self spread out.  

“Now, Donny, would it be any fun if I was a normal person?  Would you really enjoy having your dick sucked by some normal person?”  

Ressler almost drops his groceries.    Okay, maybe that voice, that tone, makes him horny.  

Slightly.

Instantly.

  “Raymond…” he pleads.  

“Shh.  Put those away and come back here, I’ll give you what you need.”  

He finally looks at Reddington, only to find Reddington looking back at him.  

Head cocked.  Appraising.  Like he’s fascinating, or something.  

“And be good boy, leave your clothes in there, too.  I want to see my tattoo.”


	2. Sunday Mornings

He’s alone when he wakes up.

Not that that’s so uncommon, these days.

Ressler has no idea who owns this house. Who Red’s scamming it from, or how, or even why, really. And maybe it doesn’t matter; in his time chasing the bastard, he learned pretty quick that there’s not much of a discernible pattern to Red’s actions.

He suspects that’s deliberate. Chaos concealing the razor-sharp intentions within.

He’s got no way of proving it, though, and it doesn’t really matter.

Red won’t be here forever, this lovingly restored Victorian in Spring Valley, with its vaulted ceilings and original millwork. He’ll bore of it, and more on.

That was another thing Ressler learned about Red, all those years he spent chasing him. 

The man always gets bored; locations, employees, lovers.

Nothing’s sacred.

And at the time, Ressler couldn’t make sense of it. He knows better now, though. Understands it at a level and with an intensity he wishes he could reach into his brain and rip out. There are hits a mans takes in his life, and then there are _losses_ , what life takes from him. And once that little hollow is dug in his soul, it never fills back up. These silk sheets, the smell of good cologne and better musk that clings to them, the morning light from those gorgeous bay windows dancing through the trees to illuminate them…

Well. They aren't what he wanted. They don't _help_. 

Still, the comfort helps some, and he lays there in it, soaking it in, neither too hot nor too cold, wondering who might sleep here when they don’t. When he doesn’t get a text on a Saturday afternoon telling him _meet me at the Sackler Gallery in an hour, my boy_. When he’s got a case to work, and can’t get away from Director Cooper’s watchful eye. 

When Red bores of him too.

“Are we planning on sleeping all morning, then?” 

 

Not today, at least, and Ressler’s irrationally grateful for that, turning over towards the door, last night’s activities aching in his lower back. Feels good, though, as does his cock, caught between body and bed.

“You went out for coffee?” he asks, putting as much incredulity into the words as possible, watching Reddington set the carrier carton, with its bag and recycled paper cups aside. “Even with that monstrosity in the kitchen?”

His lover rolls his eyes, unwinding the scarf from his neck and toeing out of his boots. “As nice as that Bodum contraption is, it doesn’t bake scones. And besides, there’s nothing quite like having some tattooed bohemian boy blend it up himself for you.”

Ressler snorts and sits up. Reddington’s still shedding clothing, outer layers cast aside like skin off a snake. “Do I need to worry? Having such a challenger for your affections?”

“There are boys you buy coffee from, and boys you buy coffee for.” One of those cups is held out to him, Reddington sitting on the edge of the bed now, collar unbuttoned. 

“I thought I was the boy you made buy coffee for you.”

Red smirks. “Oh, I think that’s a better description of Director Cooper, don’t you?”

It’s bullshit - the whole FBI is Reddington’s go-fer, at this point - but at least _he’s_ the only agent Reddington’s fucking.

So far as he knows.

Ressler tugs his criminal closer and Red comes without protest, that smug little smile changing into something almost fond as he eases down on his lap.

“Mmm, I love watching you wake up,” Red says gently, stroking a hand down his chest, knuckles soft as he strokes back up.

“Already awake, Red.”

“Not what I’m talking about, Donny.”

The coffee will go cold, before they’re done.

But that’s okay.

Plenty of time and space in life for hot coffee.

This, Ressler intends to enjoy while he can.


	3. Meera

It isn't until Ressler comes in with _that_ , that Meera figures out what's going on.

She got the official story from Cooper - _Agent Ressler took a leave of absence after this last mission, he'll file his report when he returns, I for one am glad he's finally taking some time for himself and I expect the same of you, take your leave time_ \- but she knew it was bullshit.  

Ressler is one of those blokes who only has the job.  It's what's been keeping him sane since his girlfriend died, what he's always thrown himself into, lost himself in.

He wouldn't take a couple of weeks off.  Just because.

Meera can sympathize.

There are a couple of rumors going around the Company right now.  Things she's heard.  Some ATF op in the Caribbean, Haiti, gone to shit, agent gone rogue, State Department official tortured, Zetas compound stormed, everyone inside dead, right down to the cleaning ladies.  Serious cartel shake-up, outcome indeterminate, right under the CIA's nose.  A retired Navy O-6, being held for questioning.  

She hasn't been able to dig that man's name up yet, but she doesn't need to.

Ressler.  That's who and what she's really curious about.  Ressler's different.  Quiet as he's ever been, but calmer.  Settled.  Made it through whatever dark thing's been eating away at him.  Whether he's excised or integrated it, Meera's not sure - she's seen plenty of both, during her time at the Company, and while she chose the former when it was her turn to face the demons, she's never begrudged anybody the latter.

Won't get in the way of his job.  He's a good agent.  Pure professional.

She respects that.

Doesn't mean she doesn't wonder about it.

Today, it's too easy to trap him in the Post Office's tiny break room, perch on the edge of the table, watch him as he makes another pot of coffee.  Back to her, like this, it's easy to see it.

He must have been pretty far gone, letting another man leave a mark on him like that.  Above his collar.

"Rough night?" she asks when he finally turns around, coffee dripping slowly into the carafe.  He cocks an eyebrow, and she waves at his neck.  "Looks like you've got a pretty serious bruise back there."

His hand shoots back to it automatically, and his voice is tight.  "Oh, yeah that.  I, uhh, walked into another guy's fist at class last night."

"Class?"

"Yeah, was tired of getting my ass kicked," he says, and smiles a little, rubbing his knuckles.  They're skinned, Meera notices.

"Krav?  Wing Chun?"

"MMA. Seemed like a good fit, little more applicable than high school wrestling,” he says, cautious, like this is going to bite him, and isn’t that interesting?

“You seem better,” she observes after a moment, when he’s gone back to the immediate task of coffee. “Seems that holiday did you some good.”

He doesn’t react, except for a little twitch of the hand and a slow smile, unlike anything she’s seen on him before. “Yeah. I think it did.”

Meera pushes - because this, this is important, over a decade of field time, and she knows just how damn important this is. “With Reddington?”

“He wasn’t there the entire time,” he replies, too quickly for it to be the complete truth. “But we both got back alive.”

“He treating you right?” she asks.

Point blank.

Ressler freezes.

She touches the bruise on his neck, and smooths down the collar of his studiously neutral suit. “Do you know what you’re doing? What you could be bringing down on us all?”

He swallows, but when he speaks again, there are teeth in the words. “I’ve been on his case longer than anybody, been hunting him for longer than anybody, I know what I’m dealing with.”

“He is not a peaceful man, Don.”

“And you think I am? That any of us are?”

“I think you’ve made your choices, and I’ve made mine,” she says seriously. “I’m not dying for this job, Don, and I’m not dying for him. Whatever you might be comfortable with.”

His eyes soften. “Nobody’s dying here, Meera.”

 _I forget you’re FBI sometimes_. She doesn’t say it, but it’s true - their jobs are fundamentally different, the risks fundamentally different, and she’s not blind to the indifferent way bodies seem to pile up at Reddington’s feet, the skill with which Ressler seems to handle it.

The man's not blind, after all.

Haiti. Zetas.

It's starting to make sense.

Not that Meera would say so, tell him, tell anyone, really. She just pats him on the chest, and steps back again, away. “Shame,” she says, smiling a little. “You’re hot when you’re punching things.”

He grins back, practically lounging on the counter, and sips his coffee.

Official stories are bullshit.

Official stories are always bullshit.


	4. Interrogations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by my awesome RP partner, written on the airplane. So...

"Why?"

It's stupid, but it's the first question out of his mouth. The first thing that comes to mind. 

_Why_

"I know it's a foreign concept to you, Agent Ressler, but sometimes, people lie when you ask them nicely," Reddington says, holding his hand. He wants his suit coat, Ressler realizes, and that pretty much answers his second question - _how_. "Means you move onto Plan B."

"And Plan B involves violating federal law?"

"Last I checked, it was my bullet that stopped his compatriot who he then stopped to help. I believe that makes him my prisoner, not yours. Do what I'm telling you to do."

Ressler shakes his head. "You want him tortured, you do it yourself."

Reddington's answering smile is all fang. "I'm not telling you to waterboard him, Agent Ressler. Just ask the same questions again, with less Boy Scout and more Viking. You've sure got some Scandinavian in there somewhere, don't you? Big strapping blond boy like you?"

"Family's German."

"Do I even need to say it?"

"Gentlemen!" Keen snaps, striding back over from the far end of the garage, blood on her blouse - asshole must have spit on her, Ressler figures, and that doesn't bode well for his chances of not having to do this. If anyone could get a response from a perp without physical violence, it's Keen. "We have less than a hour before that bomb goes off, and half the schools in New York City yet to evacuate and search. We need this intel. We're not going to make it in time." She stops, right in front of Ressler. "So can the dick measuring and..."

"Do what Reddington's saying?" he replies levelly, and it helps, really helps, to see the doubt in her eyes too.

"Do you want to see the cage fight too, Lizzy? Our Teutonic Donny against the Italian greaser who helped al Qaeda smuggle a bomb into his family's territory?"

"I want," and she jabs Red in the chest with the handle of the switchblade they took off the guy, "to not see the bodies of little kids on the five o'clock news."

Ressler doesn't even bother glaring at her - that's reserved for the grinning criminal in front of him. Just sloughs off his jacket and hands it to Reddington. Takes the knife away.

"I'm bigger," he says flatly, and starts rolling up his sleeves, stalking over to where they've got the suspect chained to a tool chest. "No wonder you like bottoming so much, Red!"

"Takes a real man to take it up the ass!" Red calls after him cheerfully.

Red's - unfortunately - correct.

It's amazing how talkative somebody gets when their pants are ripped off and a blade dug into the flesh above the femoral.

It also could have all likely been avoided had Red come to them a day earlier.

Ressler doesn't bother pointing any of this out.

It's crisis averted, another two names off the Blacklist, mission accomplished.

Keen doesn't ask him about the exchange; when it comes to Red, she thinks she knows him better than anyone else in there Post Office. And maybe she does, sees a side of him that nobody else gets to see, it was her the man asked for when he came in, after all.

Ressler used to be jealous.

He's big enough to admit that to himself.

But at least she doesn't get this.

Doesn't have Red come up behind her at the printer, as she's burning off a copy of her report,late at night, after everyone's gone home. Doesn't have Red run his arms down hers, lift her hand up to his lips and kiss the brace on her pinkie, where she broke it over some asshole suspect's nose. Doesn't feel that erection, digging in.

"It's not the size that matters, now is it, my boy?" Red murmurs in his ear, sibilant, full of dark promise, and rubs his cheek across the back of Ressler's neck. Drops his hands to undo Ressler's belt.

He gasps. "Raymond..."

"Hands on the counter. You're going to count to seventeen for me."

 _Why?_ he wants to ask.

But _why_ is a very dangerous question to put to a man like Raymond Reddington.

"One for every minute you wasted fighting me today. Minus one, for how fucking gorgeous you were once you started listening."

An expert hand slips under Ressler's briefs, nails just scraping his skin as they tug black cotton over his swelling cock.

Because sometimes not asking gets you an answer.

Red's funny that way.

"Be a brave boy for me, Donny, and I'll even let you come."

Ressler breathes out, not realizing until that moment that he was holding it, and nods.


	5. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE THERE BE MENTIONS OF INCEST (and Pacific Rim references; that fandom has ruined me). 
> 
> Please skip to the next chapter if this is a problem!

One of the things Ressler finds most disconcerting about this... thing with Reddington are the gifts.

All the strange, odd little gifts.

And it shouldn't - Mako Taneda's head notwithstanding, most of it's pretty harmless. Silly, even. Red paid for his gym membership one month, picked up his sixty thousand mile maintenance bill another. There's a bar around the corner from his apartment where he can drink for free, on the nights when he needs to get shitfaced, and the last time he was on a case out of state, he came home to find his closets had been professionally organized. 

He much prefers the new shelving to the teddy bear and chocolates left on his keyboard at work that one time. And Ressler would never admit to any of his coworkers that maybe Red might have sent him a garter belt or two, and he sometimes wears them to work - they came with appropriately sized straps and dress socks, so the damn things are practical, right?

But it's all been harmless.

All of it.

(Except the head)

Las Vegas. They wrapped up the case they had here early last night, some black market organ scam, and Cooper gave the entire team the rest of the weekend off. Told them to leave their rooms on the government travel cards, that the perp could sit in county lock-up until Monday morning.

_Have fun, enjoy some down time, show up sober on Monday for the flight back to DC._

Reddington hadn't come for this one, was nowhere to be found, and Ressler had rather been looking forward to going to some dumbshit tourist show, watching the fountains at the Bellagio, not drinking himself into a coma, hit the spa, and generally being a boring Midwesterner for a little while. 

And true, most Midwesterners he knows don't have the first fucking clue about what a spa day entails, but whatever.

He's got a... well, Ressler honestly still has no idea how to title his thing with Red, _boyfriend_ or _partner_ imply emotionally connectivity, and _fuckbuddy_ implies that they're actually friends.

He's fucking a guy.

He's allowed to be a little bit gay if he fucking feels like it.

Even if Reddington's paying for it. Even if it's another gift.

 _Stop being a stiff and enjoy your own little slice of Sodom and Gomorrah,_ said the note he'd woken up to this morning, pinned neatly to the pillow next to him. _Get that stick out of your ass._

Gifts. 

All harmless.

Except for... well, maybe this one, too.

Those male hands - _hello, Mister Irvington, my name is Bruce and I'll be taking care of you today_ \- steely strong but butter smooth, working his shoulders and back with gentle confidence, coming away and coming back, pressure varying just a little from time to time. The lights are low, the music soft, the table perfectly comfortable, the world outside all dark Thai-themed elegance, and Ressler's got his eyes closed, letting the last week of desert manhunt and urban chases fade away. Floating in it.

Content.

Until a second pair of warm, oiled hands - indistinguishable from the first - run up the back of his thighs, pressing hard, fingers opening to encircle the rise of his ass.

"Mm," he says, attempting to ignore the sudden shot of arousal to his groin, stay in that happy place. "Didn't realize this was a dual affair."

"Mister Reddington wanted us to take extra good care of you."

"Nothing but the best for his boy."

The two voices sound too similar, and Ressler lifts his head, opens his eyes.

And blinks.

Holy shit.

Blond, built, grinning, and...

"You're twins?" he asks.

"We normally don't do this..." the first says.

His brother picks it up without missing a beat. "...well, not for anyone else..."

"...but Raymond wanted you to enjoy your stay here in Las Vegas."

"Entire spa's yours, for the whole day. Completely private."

"Anything goes, Donny."

Ressler sucks air - this is every kind of wrong, everything that's wrong with the world Reddington lives in, wants to pull him into, and he's so hard right now he doesn't fucking _care_. "And you two..."

"Anything you want..."

"...except our cocks up your ass."

"That's his special place, evidently..."

"...as if you haven't already figured that out."

"Anything?" Ressler asks, cheek pillowed on an arm and turned to the side, watching them, body shaky.

"Anything," they say together.

"Kiss," he says, before he can stop himself. They both look at him, amused, and Ressler can feel his face going flush. Goddamn. 

Still.

Like he'd never jacked off to twincest before.

He's Raymond Reddington's lover. 

He can enjoy watching two hot men kiss if he damn well pleases.

"Kiss," he says again, firmer this time, sitting up. "Like nobody's watching."

They grin at each other. And one crooks a finger at the other.

"C'mere, Trev. Daddy Red's out for the day. Nobody to stop us at all."

Ressler can't stop the moan.

+++++

Last Ressler sees of them that day, Bruce is waving to him from the oversized soaking tub in the hydrotherapy room, Trevin tackling him from behind, water splashing everywhere.

Next time Ressler sees them, they're on Red's plane.

In uniform.

In the cockpit.

Running through the pre-flight checklist.

Red just hands him a glass of champagne, and closes the door.

"You let massage therapists fly your plane?" Ressler asks in disbelief.

Red - of course - smirks. "I let my pilots give you a massage."

"But they were really..." and he stops, fighting those memories down, taking a deep breath. "They were very good."

"I assure you, they'll equally good pilots. Seems the Air Force takes none to kindly to brothers fucking each other. I, on the other hand, rather admire a man who flies in the face of social convention."

Ressler doesn't even know where to start with that. And it wouldn't do him any good. "And you made them go to massage school?"

"I like all my employees to have a secondary skill set." That smirk widens. "Imagine what we'll find for you."


	6. Edging

"Red, Red, _Jesus_ , I need to..."

"Not until I say so, Danny."

Ressler twists in the restraints, his own hand cuffs chaining him to the metal frame of one of the presentation boards, down here in the Post Office's op room. His shirt, under his jacket, is soaked with sweat, his belt buckle smacking against his thigh in time to Reddington's thrusts, his arms growing just a little bit numb. His cock's straining, aching, and he wants to come so bad he can't hardly think straight. 

They've been at this for a fucking long time.

This morning, if Ressler doesn't want to start it at midnight when Red yanked him from the case files on Number 67 and drug him by the tie down here. If he wants to count Red coming up behind him at the urinal at nine-thirty AM, just as he was finishing, slamming him forward so hard he barely caught the wall, nose missing the handle by an inch.

 _Want you in this today, Agent Ressler,_ the criminal had purred.

Fucking chastity device.

One of those combo deals. Ring on one end, plug on the other. Red had shoved it into him, locked it down. The belt's still cinched tight on his hips, almost above where the top of his pants. Plug's free now, swinging, hitting the glass behind him, sticky with old lube. Red had whispered that he was going to make him leave the marks, and the thought of coming in tomorrow morning, that mark still there during the morning briefing...

His cock is _straining_ against the ring.

Red bites his throat, stops the brutal pistoning of his hips. His erection's seated all the way inside, head pressing against Ressler's prostate, that special lube tingling, and Ressler keens.

"What would they think of you now, Donny?" Red chuckles, and Ressler can't feel anything but the best of the other man's heart, a splitting pressure in his gut. "What would they think, if they saw you? Spread out for me, begging for me..."

Ressler shakes his head, thoughts fogging, right on that knife's edge between pleasure and pain. "I... I'm not begging..."

"Their good little Boy Scout, taking up the ass from his sworn enemy." A hot tongue licks up his neck, chasing a tickle of sweat. Ressler thrashes, but it gets him nowhere. Red's fingers are a vice on his hips.

"G-Goddammit, Red..."

"What a little slut you are, Donny," comes the answering purr, and Red slaps his thigh, hard enough to sting. He sounds almost bored, completely in control, and Ressler hates him, hates him so much, hates him but loves his cock, loves that, loves... "You and this cock-hungry ass of yours... split open on my cock, where anyone could see..."

He whines, low and long.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Harold coming back, forgotten briefcase, hearing us, seeing us..." Red slaps him again, knocking Ressler's body forward, the movement pushing his cock straight into his prostate. Ressler moans. "He'd fire you, you know, demand your resignation. You'd have to come work for me. And that's what you want, isn't it? Have all your excuses taken away, all your pretense of righteousness. Be exposed for the dirty, naughty boy you really are...get to be the naughty boy you really are... just... all... for... me..."

Each of those last few words is accompanied by another slap, so hard that Ressler barely registers Red slipping from his body, and desperately shakes his head. 

"Raymond, please, please, yes, I'm dirty, I'll be your dirty boy, just... _please_..."

His lover chuckles, and finally moves; rolls his hips, circling a few times, before thrusting in hard, just once. "Like that, darling?"

Ressler let's his head fall back, nodding. There are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He needs to come, needs it more than air, needs it no matter who's watching, who might see them, out here in the open, half-naked and Reddington completely in command...

Red bites his ear. "Say it."

"Please," he whispers, too far gone to care anymore, to care that Red's winning this one, that Red'll always win, that he wants to lose to the man...

"Please what?"

"Please let me," he sobs, straining in the cuffs, "p-please let me come."

Red's quiet for a moment, cock shiny with lube and standing proud out from it's nest of wiry salt-and-pepper hair.

Then he smiles.

Then he puts his forehead on Ressler's, pulling a leg back up around his thigh, pushing back in.

"You just look so pretty when you beg," he whispers.

Ressler tilts his head up and kisses his lover with every ounce of strength he's got left.

Just so he doesn't babble something really, really stupid.


	7. Gay Club

Ressler crumples the beer can, staring at his phone.

It’s one of those nights.

Drinking alone in his apartment, on Saturday, in his fucking PJs. Contemplating the unthinkable, because...

Well, it’s definitely one of those nights.

He’s not drunk, but he is a little buzzed. Just enough to lean forward and hit ‘call’ on the sleek little screen.

He’s not drunk, which means he’s got the presence of mind to grab for it and hang up before it can ring twice.

No. No.

He’s not doing that.

Ressler goes to the club instead, the one he goes to on nights like this, when he’s horny and bored and wants to get laid. There’s nothing special about it, nothing that makes it memorable. That’s what he likes about it. Nobody to care about the blond guy with the popped collar, except whoever’s he’s gonna blow in the bathroom. If he wanted, there are straight girls here, but he doesn’t want.

Not tonight.

Tonight he wants...

But before he can find it, somebody’s slotting up behind him, as he’s ordering at the bar. _Plastering_ , actually, chest pressed hard against his back, teeth at his ear.

“Why don’t you order me a drink too, baby?”

He’d laugh, but it’s not funny. He’d snarl, but he’s not pissed. Instead, there’s just this heat in his gut, growing and growing, and Ressler is beginning to worry about himself.

Happy that a criminal came to find him.

“Another vodka tonic,” he tells the bartender, before Reddington yanks him back by the belt loop.


	8. Shoot Out

Ressler didn't need to feel the gun click open to know he was empty. Fucking regs on agents using the fucking ten-round mags, like there was never a situation where maybe a guy might need the full thirteen, or...

"We really need to upgrade your personal arsenal," Reddington said from the other side of the hall, smiling a little. Like this was fucking Disneyland or something, instead of a shoot-out in the reeking basement of an old Ohio hotel. "I've got a great contact who can get you..."

"Not interested in your criminal buddy's Russian-made bullshit," Ressler said, low and angry, and dropped the mag from his Glock, careful. They'd managed to scramble back here, but he had no idea where here was, or what was coming after them, and this much concrete above and around, not even Reddington's sat phone was getting signal.

"Who said anything about the Russians? I know a lovely Israeli family who custom..."

"Even less interested," Ressler grunted. He jerked his head in the direction of the open hall. "Anyone still alive out there? My sight line's gone."

Reddington scooted forward, just enough to glance quickly around. "Looks empty, except for that body," he said quietly, and settled back against his own wall. "But never fear. Cheng's people are relentless, and more scared of him than they are of us. They'll be back. Possibly circling around to flank us now."

Ressler glared at him. "Do you ever stop?"

"Next time you and Lizzy want to drag me along on one of these manhunts, you should allow me a weapon."

"Cooper said no," he replied without thinking, flushing almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Through the darkness of the hall, Ressler could see Reddington's smile. 

And a 22 round mag was held out. 

"I changed my mind," Reddington said conversationally, as Ressler tapped the mag quietly in, racked a round, hand spread over the chamber to muffle the noise. 

The FBI agent snuck a look around the corner. Fuck. Goons.

"What?"

"You're incredibly sexy when you're killing people."


	9. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching the finale and all sad for the boys.

Reddington’s already got his shirt off when Ressler arrives, scarred back to the door, dabbing the blood from a wide wound. Old dried bits are clinging to the fine hairs, and to his skin, and Ressler wonders, for a moment, why it’s always violence that seems to bring them together.

“You got shot.”

“Hazard of doing business.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ressler sits down next to him on the bed, grabbing the first aid kit on the way, and takes the gauze away from him. The FBI man in him whispers that he should be wearing gloves; the lover in him tells him to fuck it, take care of this. He’s let Reddington raw dog him a few times, anyway. Can’t be worse than that. “I’ve seen what you do when you stitch yourself up.”

He presses his thumb against a scar along his lover’s ribs. A long and nasty gash, made worse by Reddington’s handiwork.

“Those are from my younger, stupider days,” Red says and rolls his shoulder, opening his arm up a bit, rotating the wound for a better angle. 

Ressler resists the urge to come back with some smart-ass remark, ripping open one of the little sterilized pre-threaded needles, an iodine wipe. The last few days have been horrible, the task force tearing apart, friends dying...

“Let me,” he says.

This, at least, is something he can put back together.

Maybe Reddington understands that. Maybe Reddington is dealing with demons of his own - this mystery enemy of his, striking from shadows for reasons unknown, hidden even from his formidable intelligence network.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t do anything.

Lets Ressler stitch him up, smooth a dressing across the area, tape it down.

And he grabs Ressler’s wrist, before he can move away.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. Quiet. Low.

Ressler’s throat constricts, and he closes his eyes. “Yeah, well, with the task force... figured this was it.”

“The task force is still a go. Lizzy decided to stay on.” That hand on his wrist moves down to his hand, fingers knotting through his. “I was going to offer, you know, take you with me.”

He shakes his head. “No you weren’t.”

“Donny...”

“You’re not here for me. We both know that.” He laughs, the sound bitter. “You’re here for Keen, and I... that’s fine, you don’t need to lie to me about it.”

“Donny,” Red commands. “Look at me.”

“Red...”

“Look at me, Donny.”

And the second he opens his eyes, Red’s there, right in front of him. Donny tries to protest, to insist, but Red smiles at him, and he’s lost.

“I called you.”


	10. Voyeur

Ressler can feel his heartbeat picking up, as he unbuttons his shirt, lays his tie aside on his dresser. It’s a normal night, nothing special about it at all, occupied by neither MMA nor case, Reddington nowhere to be found.

He hasn’t seen the man all week, actually.

Stuck in the Post Office while Meera and Liz help Reddington hunt down some hitman in Connecticut. And Ressler’s stuck at a desk, bitch work, going through surveillance footage, but that’s what he gets for arguing with Cooper, for disobeying a direct order in the field. 

Whatever.

It’s only a ten day suspension from field ops. Probably because it was the right fucking call - kids rescued, day saved.

But it does mean he hasn’t seen Reddington in over a week. It’s sex on tap normally, this thing with Red, and being without it this long...

Sometimes Ressler thinks he’s becoming a slut for cock.

Sometimes, he doesn’t care.

Like tonight.

He wriggles out of his slacks, hanging them neatly back up. Tosses his shirt and undershirt in the hamper, socks following. He didn’t bother with anything silky today - too frustrating, he’s found, wearing Red’s panties without Red around to do anything about them - and he doesn’t bother taking his briefs off.

Not yet, anyway.

They’re dark charcoal, practically painted on. His favorite pair. To keep to routine, they should follow the socks into the laundry, but not tonight.

Here’s where he breaks it.

Here’s where he falls back on his bed, on his back, sliding a hand down his chest.

Straight under the band of that gray cotton.

Ressler smiles to himself, then sighs, his own flesh going hard under his fingers.

Red’s got cameras in his room.

Let him watch. 

Let him see exactly what he’s missing.

As much as Ressler’s gonna let him see, anyway.

Because he’s got a feeling he’s going to ruin these briefs here tonight.


	11. Self-Medicating

“So, darling, what sounds like fun tonight? The silk ties or the handcuffs?”

Ressler takes the whiskey from Red, feeling only marginally guilty about it; Keen was just here. He heard them talking, can practically smell her perfume, faded and tired, clinging to Red’s waistcoat.

“Mmm, can I have a minute to think about it?”

Red looks at the glass. “Are you still taking...”

“I didn’t tonight.”

“You can have more, any time you want, but you shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with it.”

Shaking his head, Ressler finishes the drink in one go, and hands the glass back for a refill. “I shouldn’t be taking it at all.”

“Ah yes, what would your precious psychiatrist say about that one?”

Ressler sighs, toeing his shoes off. He’d been in the process of getting undressed, when Keen had stormed into the brownstone, forcing him to retreat to the bedroom. This thing with Red is not anything he wants to explain to her - ever - and he’d thrown his clothes back on, just in case. Never can be too careful. She’s even more unpredictable than usual, that one.

But of course, Cooper thinks _he’s_ the one with needs counseling.

Ressler didn’t get to avoid her forever; that’s not the way the FBI works, and when Cooper showed back up, it was pretty much the first thing the Director ordered him to do.

“You make your appointments, or you get the hell off my task force.”

Ressler hates psychiatrists. He hated the entry evaluation he had to do, hates the yearly assessments that come with this job. Hates having to sit there on a sofa or chair or in an empty coffee lounge - some docs like the more casual nature of that setting - and talk about his feelings. Have his brain opened up and the contents examined.

And right now, considering the situation, he’s got no idea how this is supposed to not end badly.

In fact, getting kicked out of the FBI for mental health reasons, flattened to just “health” on any official record, is sounding better by the day.

“Several of your team members have mentioned that you seem... different, since your girlfriend died.”

“Since my fiancee was shot.”

“You were engaged again?”

“I think I’ve got the right, to not be okay with it, don’t you think? Doc?”

Fuck all of that.

Keen might be haunted by the knowledge that Berlin got his money back, that terror cells still have a source of uninterrupted funding, but what’s bothering Ressler is that it’s not bothering him.

It’s just... everything’s very far away right now.

“Fuck her,” he says, and Red shifts a little, still standing there by the edge of the bed. “Fuck the doc,” Ressler says, louder this time. “I don’t need her poking around in my head. I mean, come on, how many people have you shot? Seen die in front of you? What’s with this stupid obsession, going to see someone every time life gets, I don’t know, mildly upsetting?”

“Callousness towards death is not a trait I would recommend you cultivate.”

Ressler snorts. “You want me to come work for you? And I’m not supposed to be used to dead bodies?”

Red stares at him for a moment more, and then paces off towards the wardrobe in the corner of the borrowed bedroom, back to Ressler as he start undoing buttons. “This last year or so has been unusual. Far more people than I would prefer.”

“Is it cause of us?”

“This kind of body count is bad for business.”

Ressler thinks about the blood on his hands, a woman’s blood, oozing slowly from that gunshot wound, saving her, saving some stranger when he couldn’t save... and he doesn’t want to think about this anymore. Or ever. Really.

He stretches out, drink set aside, one hand over his head and one on his belly.

“Why don’t we skip the cute shit tonight and you get the rope out?”

Turning, Red gives him a curious look, smiling at him for the first time in what feels like weeks. “Needy boy tonight, are we?”

“Yeah, Red. Yeah, needy boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is Ressler taking? I have no idea, but you just know Red's getting it for him!


	12. Showers

It’s the way the door slams.

Ressler can tell.

It’s gonna be a rough night.

Ressler wasn’t expecting Reddington tonight, but then, he’s never expecting it when Reddington comes over. It’s been happening more lately, especially since his ex-wife resurfaced. The criminal lets himself in, grabs Ressler, drags him to bed...

Sixteen nights out of the last twenty-five.

Not that Ressler’s been counting.

The sound of the shower fills the quiet apartment.

He smiles down at his book, tucking a scrap of paper into the page and setting it aside.

Follows.

“Being around that man makes me feel unclean,” Reddington says as Ressler steps into the small condo bathroom. The man’s back is bowed, hands gripping the edge of the counter. He’s naked to the waist, and those scars are an angry red in ashen skin. It’s a trick of the light, the steam that’s fogging the room. Ressler frames the shot in his mind, wondering for a moment if he’s got time to get his camera. It’s not just the light. He never sees Reddington this... whatever this is. “The thought of him, where he’s been, all that filth flowing out of him and into her...”

“What are you talking about?”

“I needed somebody to keep an eye on her for me, somebody who would do anything to keep her safe, but somebody who wouldn’t walk like a born killer, who wouldn’t bare his teeth unless there were no other options. It was a very specific personality profile I had worked up, and he was the best choice. Pulled him out of an experimental prison in New Jersey and made him an offer.”

“You did that? You gave your wife to a convicted felon?”

“His only murders were on the inside, he used to have kids, like us, he...”

“You don’t have to explain,” Ressler says quietly, stripping his t-shirt off, stepping up behind Reddington, spreading an arm across that scarred flesh. “I don’t need that.”

“Maybe I need it.”

“What you need is my cock in your ass.”

Reddington snorts. “It is a very nice cock, for a boy from Montana.”

“Shut up,” and Ressler nips his lover’s ear, rocks into his ass. It’s been a long time since Reddington’s let him top. It’s a strange night all around. Doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. Doesn’t mean he’s not sort of genuinely worried. He trails careful fingers around, sliding Reddington’s belt through its loops, that fine Italian wool out of the way. “Turn that brain off and let me do the thinking for a while.”

“Ah, you doom us all, Donny.”

“I said shut up.”


	13. Pills

Reddington’s gone when Ressler wakes up that morning. The morning after Reddington let Ressler top, begged for it, pleaded, even. _Oh Donny, my sweet boy, harder, you can do better…_

Not that it’s a surprise, exactly. 

Reddington’s never around in the morning. Not when they’re at Ressler’s apartment, anyway.

But this is…

This is wrong.

Somehow, Ressler knows, in his bones, this is wrong.

It doesn’t seem bad, at first. The first few days, after. 

No calls, no texts, no coming home to find Red there. 

But the bar they used to meet up at sometimes gets bought out; _new management_ , he’s told when he goes by that weekend, a cheery white _RUBY TUESDAYS COMING SOON_ placard on the construction walls. Ressler goes home, confused - the bar did well, he’d always thought, a popular spot - and jacks off for the camera.

Red doesn’t come for that, either.

He tries it a few more times the next week.

Nothing.

He gives up, goes back to jerking off in the shower. The water washes away all evidence of his shame, of his worry, and Ressler hates himself for the way he reaches for the pill bottle more than twice the next day.

His gym closes the next week. For this, there’s no explanation, not until he manages to track down one of the other students with whom he’s friendly.

“Car accident, Don,” he’s told. “It was in the papers. Guy who owned it died before the paramedics could arrive.”

Ressler wonders… but Red is usually above cold-blooded murder of people who mean nothing to him.

His phone doesn’t ring.

It doesn’t ring.

Reddington doesn’t come by the Post Office. 

Reddington only talks to Keen now.

Reddington only ever talked to Keen.

Ressler’s back to chasing a ghost through mountains of paperwork. There’s only paperwork left. Cooper tells him to go home early. He asks for more field work, outside the office, and Cooper just tells him to go home early.

“Let the girls carry the load for a while.”

 _Then what I am supposed to do?_ he wants to ask, but just grinds out a _yes sir_ and goes back to his desk.

He and Keen used to share this space. But she’s out with Reddington, which means he never sees her either.

The world loses its color, and when Ressler catches himself about to tell the psychiatrist what he means, he realizes how far from shore he’s gone. 

It feels…

He says what he needs to say. Lies. She signs off on his discharge from the program; she’s got her own workload to think of, after all.

When he gets home that night, there’s a fresh bottle of pills waiting for him.

What difference does it make, Ressler wonders, and downs two. With a beer. In his room, half-hoping Reddington will come.

Reddington does.

And Ressler lets himself cry in the shower.


	14. The Freighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~My~~ Ressler's reaction to the events of The Scimitar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so off the script on this series at this point, and I like my version of things better anyway. Not sorry. Not even gonna pretend that I’m sorry.
> 
> This, to me, is a good place to end this drabble set. I’ve got a pretty good idea about what the next full-fic installment is going to be - and by good idea, I mean I've got the thing 80% lines out. I’m hoping life is going to settle down enough for me to write it over the next couple of months. Should I spend my limited writing time working on a fall-from-grace fic that's probably going to be over 50K words? Probably not. I'm gonna do it anyway.

It’s Keen who’s the last straw. Doesn’t surprise him. Ressler’s known this was coming since she first showed up at the task force in her overpriced ponte jacket, floating high on Reddington’s patronage. To her, of course, she was depressed and stressed and the whole thing has destroyed her happy life, but Ressler knows; she’s the kind of person who joined the FBI on the hope that someday, she’d get to shoot the right people, do the right thing, be the big hero.

Or maybe he’s projecting.

He doesn’t really give a shit any more.

Ressler pretty much gave up on the self-analysis when he told his shrink to fuck off a couple weeks ago.

“I thought for a second we were gonna lose you back there.”

What does he say to that? Her kindness, her condescension? She doesn’t realize she’s doing it; women usually don’t, talking down to the man in front of them like it’s her feminine wisdom that’s going to save him, like he’d be lost without her input. She means well, but if Ressler’s learned anything over the last couple of months with Reddington, it’s that he doesn’t have to put up with it. He shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Why can’t he just self-destruct on his own, without anyone else getting a say in how or why?

What difference would it make?

Cooper’s got no use for him, not with Keen and Navabi around. Told him to take a couple days off, get his head straight, come back in fresh on Monday. Sure a dismissal as Ressler’s ever read; the boss did it by email. _Email_. 

Audrey’s gone, no kids. He hasn’t talked with his parents since, fuck, since he and Audrey broke it off. His father hadn’t said much. His mother had given him a tongue-lashing, the likes of which he hadn’t heard since the snowstorm. 

_How dare you let your job get between you and the woman you love?_

The drugs don’t help. 

He still sees Audrey in his dreams.

He hasn’t seen Reddington in almost a month.

The last round of pills had been left on his bathroom counter, no note. Nothing.

His phone hasn’t rung.

The silence that’s left, the hole, the chill that's settled into every crack and crevasse of his apartment, his life, his soul...

“The prospect of having to live without me," he says carelessly, sarcastically as he can manage, struggling against the roaring _need_ in his blood, “must have been terrifying.”

“It was.”

 _Bullshit,_ he wants to say, but that’ll just start a fight. Get Keen being her righteous, smothering self. And it makes him mad, it really does, because he sees the same poison from Red that’s eating him alive pumping in her veins.

She gets praised for it.

He gets pills.

Fuck, he really hates the pills. Hates the shakes, the sensation of helplessness when he doesn’t have them, the look of disgust in Keen’s eyes when she confronted him about it. 

“The irony is, all the drugs they pumped in me, this is the best I’ve felt all week.”

Her face is hard. “What about that? Is that going to be a problem?”

Ressler wants to tell her to fuck off. Oh, how he wants to tell her to fuck off.

But Cooper comes in, just in the nick of time. Sends her away. Doesn’t say a goddamn word to him.

It makes Ressler so angry. He’s the one who’s explicitly turned Reddington down, isn’t he? She’s the one doing exactly what Reddington wants, becoming exactly what Reddington wants her to be. Where’s her heartbreak? What price is she paying?

He knows it’s not fair.

But that knowledge only makes him angrier.

There are legalities, to quitting the FBI. Resignation letters, paperwork, bullshit administrative stuff. Debriefing requirements. A fuckload of debriefing requirements.

Fuck all of it.

He says goodbye to Aram. That’s it. Nothing special, just a simple _take care of yourself._

Aram doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. Waves, tells him to have a good weekend.

It’s fitting. 

Hurts more than it should. They were never really friends. Colleagues, yes, but never anything more than that.

On his way to the parking garage, Ressler takes stock of his situation. Tries to figure this shit out. 

He could stay, do the government contracting route, leverage his current position into some bullshit administrative job at the GSA, something like that. Ride out the remaining eleven years he’s got to qualify for that federal pension. Go quietly into the night; sink into that faceless sea; cease, for all intents and purposes, to exist.

Fail. Fail at everything he’s ever tried to do.

That’s shame he can’t deal with.

He’s got a couple of fake IDs stashed in his car already, part of the little emergency kit he’s kept around since starting his crusade against Reddington years ago. There’s cash too, USD and British pounds and Euro, stuff that’s easy to exchange and readily accepted, along with a few other small and interesting items he’s picked up over the years. No passport, too difficult to forge and too easy to trace, but there are other ways across national borders that don’t need passports.

Ressler sits in his car, staring at the innocuous backpack into the lining of which all of this is sewn, for what has to be half an hour. 

_Go home,_ he hears Reddington say, back in that period after Audrey’s death when everything was horribly, terrifyingly clear. _Turn back from this, go home. It may seem like the hardest thing in the world but it is profoundly easier than what you’re contemplating._

 _I’m not turning back._ That’s what he said then.

And just because, these days, he wishes he was dead more often than not, doesn’t mean he’s ready to unmake himself.

It’s a Wednesday. He’s not expected back until Monday.

Five days. He’s got five days before anybody expects to see him.

A man can get around the world and back in five days, if he wants to.

Reddington’s got his apartment bugged.

Ressler doesn’t go back there either.

Fuck him too.

He dumps his car in Baltimore. Steals a cell phone, clones his number to it, and dumps his own phone in New Jersey. His credit cards go to the bottom of the East River. He stops at a Goodwill, an Army surplus, then a homeless shelter. New York City’s full of them, and it’s pretty easy to tell which have surveillance cameras and which don’t. It’s a good place to figure out his next move.

There’s an informal economy that operates down at this level of civilization, something he learned intimately on a ten-week undercover investigation in California a few years back. It takes him two days to get the information he needs. A container ship, final destination of Tannin, Estonia, whose captain isn’t particularly interested in papers.

He fakes a Swedish accent, pulls his forged EU identification card. The three hours he spent one night beating the shit out of it works.

By Sunday, he’s underway.

By Monday, his body's screaming for a hit. The ship's medic accepts a blowjob in return for a diagnosis of an acute but non-contagious stomach bug, and Ressler sweats it out over a four-day period, locked in a miniscule cabin in sick hall that exists for these sorts of things. He thinks about whether or not they're looking for him, if they care at all. He hallucinates. He screams. The medic brings him food twice a day and washes his face and says _I see this more than you'd imagine_ and Ressler's never been more grateful. Costs him a couple more blowjobs, but by Friday, he's able to pull a threadbare woolen sweater on and get to work on the deck.

If Ressler was a poetic man, he might be tempted to feel reborn. Mostly, he's just exhausted. But he does feel better than he has in a long, long time.

Ten days later, he’s far enough out to risk a glance at the stolen cell phone using the ship’s satellite-powered DAS. Up on the desk, back by the engines where it’s noisy. Twelve hours out from the Faroes.

Ten calls from Keen on Monday, six messages. One call from Aram, on Thursday, and another, on Tuesday. One from a Montana number he doesn’t recognize. No message. Nothing from an official FBI number. Nothing from Reddington.

Ressler set up passive collection on the phone, because sure, he might be a masochist. 

He selects one at random. 

_Ressler, this is Keen. All I can think about is you laying dead in some alley with a needle in your arm. Please tell me that’s not...”_

He hangs up. Goes back into the program. Ignores the rest of her messages, ignores the Montana number entirely, listens to Aram’s instead.

Thursday. 

_Hey, man, I was kind of distracted last night when you left. Sorry about that. I, uhh... shit. Look, you seemed pretty beat up and I just wanted you to know, if you want to go get a drink or something, I know a good place. Let me know._

Tuesday.

_Cooper wants me to put a trace on you, but I told him you’ve been off the grid since Thursday afternoon. Thanks for making me lie to the boss. I know you cloned your number before ditching your phone, so I know you’re getting this._

_Keen went over to your place when you didn’t show up for work. Forensics has been through your apartment, found a couple of bugs, weird shit, things like that. The office thinks you’ve been abducted. I haven’t said anything yet._

_You’re not the only person who doesn’t like what’s been going on around here. You think I haven’t had my own moral crisis over this shit? This isn’t the way to handle it, though. Internal Affairs is gonna be here tomorrow. Cooper will put your name on the INTERPOL watch list. You know how this ends, and I... just, I... that offer of a drink’s still open. We can’t get it if you’re in jail._

Ressler thinks about it. 

For about a minute. 

Then lets the phone drop. Six stories down, straight into the frigid waters of the North Sea. 

A sea bird, riding the air currents streaming around the tanker’s bulk, dodges it gracefully. A white flash against the dark sea. 

Ressler rubs his side, where the waves of Reddington’s tattoo curve up to crash against his ribs. 


End file.
